Sherlock's Hallelujah
by Believe4Ever
Summary: *This story is based off of Rufus Wainwright's song 'Hallelujah'* - Where was Sherlock? John had been searching London all day. Sherlock had disappeared just earlier that day. Without a trace. It was frightening the ex-medic horribly. Where was Sherlock?


_Sherlock played his violin, its music coming out soft and sweet. Once in a while he'd pluck one chord that added a kind of hymn-feeling to the piece. He'd been playing it for only about three minutes before his captor shrieked at him to put it down. Sherlock ignored him._

_The music continued for another minute, then another. Finally a hard hand came and slammed into the back of Sherlock's head, sending the detective crashing to the ground. How did things get so out of hand? No, Sherlock wasn't going to think about anything like that. He smiled slightly as he thought of John. His sweet, caring blogger._

_"Now bow to your king," the enemy hissed. Sherlock looked up at him, a trace of blood trickling down his face from smashing into the concrete underfoot. The detective just sat up and retrieved his violin, which was slightly scratched and splintered from the impact. He continued playing once again._

()()()

It was getting dark. John looked up as the stars started to twinkle overhead. The moon was full and bright, shining down onto the streets below. It made the doctor smile, even just slightly. He remembered from one of their adventures when Sherlock had traveled over the rooftops and John had watched from below. His sweet Sherlock had looked absolutely stunning, bathed in the pale light of the moon and his dark coat accentuating his alluring aspects.

He shook his head. He had to stop thinking about this. He had to find Sherlock. Keep looking.

()()()

_The rope was starting to dig into Sherlock's skin. Blood was dripping down the side of his face and probably from his wrists after the rope burns had finally changed into rough cuts that dug into his skin like a prickling knife. He watched as his enemy got the weapon ready: a long leather whip._

_The enemy turned back to face him, raised the whip, and brought it down. The leather whipped around, slashing to the side and smashing the legs of the chair that Sherlock was tied to. He went down once again; face slamming into the cold concrete once more. He winced at the pain shooting through the shoulder that landed awkwardly behind him._

_He heard the sudden sound of snipping scissors and felt his hair being tugged and jerked around. He gritted his teeth at the small sharp jerks of pain and as he saw his locks of hair drop in front of him, he just wanted to scream even more._

_When the snipping sounds died down, Sherlock was left lying on the ground for a while until he felt like he was going to pass out. That's when the whip was brought down onto his body and a loud shriek erupted from his lips._

()()()

Lestrade had told John that he should just go home. They would find Sherlock. What did Sherlock even do, to disappear? To get into so much trouble? What was wrong with him?

The doctor climbed up the stairs into the living room. He recognized everything, knowing every nook and cranny. There was the skull, to the left, the body parts shoved into the fridge, and the bullet holes in the wall. Not to mention the spray-painted smiley face.

John couldn't believe that he actually got along without Sherlock. After the fall, even before he met the man. He had been living a sad life alone, a life without any kind of excitement or adventure. But now he had Sherlock . . .

Or maybe he didn't, now that he was missing.

()()()

_Sherlock wished that he had told John where he was going. He knew that this was going to be dangerous, but he had never imagined that it would end up with him being imprisoned and tortured. Who knew if he was going to make it out of this alive? And what if he didn't? John wouldn't know what happened to him until someone saw his body and reported it to the police._

_Sherlock missed John. He missed being with him. He missed when they would talk to each other, even when John's parts of the conversations were somewhat idiotic. John was the one who finally got Sherlock to change his ways in order to improve his health and his overall concentration._

_How he dearly missed his blogger._

()()()

John couldn't stand staying in 221B. He went wandering. He wandered aimlessly, going into random buildings and leaving when he regained his senses. But he couldn't stop. Once in a while he'd look up into the sky and wonder if he should pray to God. After all, what harm could it do to ask for a little help?

But he kept wandering.

Until he walked into the building exactly three hundred and forty-two feet away from Baker Street. He froze, finding Sherlock one the ground and a man standing over him, shadowed in darkness, inside. For a moment, he couldn't move, but as soon as he saw the man bring a whip down onto Sherlock, John's hand instantly went for the gun he kept on him at all times. It only took one shot to take down the man.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears from the pain being forced onto his body. They widened with sparkling hope when he saw John. The doctor ran over to his friend and gave him a large hug, careful not to worsen his pain.

No words had to be exchanged. They knew that the other had been through enough for one day. They felt warmth being with each other. No words had to be exchanged.

But Sherlock did whisper one: _"Hallelujah."_


End file.
